Addendum II: Obsession
by Rain in the Morning
Summary: Freddy is assigned to a new case, but he cannot quite forget Blonde, who is still at large in LA. Rating for language and violence.
1. On the Doorstep

_A/N: I received requests to post the sequel to Addendum (part I), so here it is. It will be twelve chapters long, similar to the first story. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Reservoir Dogs. Period._

**Chapter 1: On the Doorstep**

Freddy stood in front of the door, wanting nothing more than to simply turn around and walk away. He paused on the step, hesitating, hand drifting towards and away from the bell like a pendulum. What had he been thinking, coming here? What the fuck would he say? There was seriously no way he could handle this. He was a fucking coward, and he knew it.

But before he could just leave and forget about the whole thing, an unpleasant memory began to resurface, creeping out from the dark reaches of his subconscious. And like all unpleasant memories, it was impossible to block out.

_He couldn't see, he couldn't move. Noises were penetrating the darkness. Scuffling sounds, footsteps, raised voices. He fought towards consciousness. It was like swimming upwards through molasses._

"… _the hell you think we've been askin' each other?"_

"_Yeah, and what'd you come up with, huh? You think I did it? You think I fuckin' set you up?"_

_Pink and Nice Guy Eddie. Freddy couldn't bring himself to care what they were quarrelling about, and allowed his concentration to wane again. Larry's voice joined the argument, and Freddy felt strangely comforted – in a weird, detached, semi-conscious way – that the man was still close by. Then a quieter voice caused Freddy to pay attention once more, straining to identify the speaker:_

"_Where's Joseph?"_

_Blonde. So the motherfucker had somehow escaped too. Freddy was finding it difficult to concentrate, but he forced himself to keep on listening:_

"… _ain't talked to him! I talked to Dov. He says daddy's comin' down here and he's fuckin' pissed."_

_Sweet welcome relief washed over Freddy like a frothy breaking wave. Joe was on his way. As soon as he arrived the cops would move in and then this would all be over. Exhausted by the effort of staying more or less awake, he allowed his consciousness to fade…_

…_?_

_It was the sound of raised voices that roused him once more. He had no idea how much time had elapsed. It could've been three seconds or three days._

"…_make it fuckin' so! Come on, man, think!"_

_Freddy wished they would stop shouting, just shut the fuck up and let him rest. His mind didn't seem to be working properly, because he found it hard to understand what they were saying. Must be the blood loss. But he did manage to figure out that they were bringing the diamonds back to the warehouse. Hope rose within him, and he relaxed. Joe was on his way, and would be caught in the presence of the diamonds and the thieves. Just like Holdaway had planned. It wasn't going to be a total fucking failure after all; he could still get the job done, and then this whole fucking mess wouldn't be one terrible bloody waste._

"_Blondie. Stay here, babysit them two. White and Pink, you take a car each…"_

_Great, he was going to be left in the warehouse with the trigger-happy Mr. Blonde? Some small part of Freddy's mind wondered who else Eddie meant by "them two." Had Mr. Blue arrived at the rendezvous? Was he injured too? Freddy didn't have the energy to dwell on these thoughts for long, and quickly slipped back into unconsciousness…_

…_?_

_Music was playing. Shuffling sound of feet. Was Blonde _dancing_? Now that was just fucked up… Confused sounds that Freddy couldn't figure out. Speech. Laughter? Someone was groaning. Mr. Blue? Was he in pain? A strange splashing sound. Then screaming._

"_Don't! Stop! Stop!"_

_That voice wasn't familiar at all. Blonde was speaking, but the other guy – he was begging. Freddy fought to open his eyes. What the fuck was going on?_

"…_stop. Just talk to me for a minute, don't – please – don't, don't burn me, please!"_

_Burn? Was Blonde going to fucking _burn_ this man? He smelled gasoline – shit! He had to help this guy, whoever he was. He had to move. He had to open his eyes._

"…_I don't know anything about any fucking guys, I'm not gonna say anything!"_

_One eye open. He saw the floor, and – was that an ear? Freddy's stomach churned and he fought down nausea. Two eyes open. A pool of clear liquid on the ground. A pair of shoes. A chair. A cop… _a cop?!

"_Please… Look I got a little kid at home now, please…"_

Oh shit!_ Freddy struggled to clear his mind. His gun was still hooked around his finger, thank fucking god, and he tightened his grip, hand settling into the familiar position. He dragged his left arm closer to his side, and painfully heaved himself up onto his elbow._

_Raised the gun. Fuck, it was heavy._

_Aimed._

"_How 'bout some fire, scarecrow?"_

_Squeezed the trigger._

Freddy blinked, brought suddenly back to his present location on a quiet suburban doorstep. He bowed his head and sighed. Shit, he couldn't back out now, not after all he'd been through. Not after coming this far. It was his responsibility, and nobody else's. If he turned around and left he'd be the worst fucking scumbag in history.

He brought his hand up, finger pointed like a gun, and pressed the doorbell. Deep down he hoped that nobody would be home, but he was out of luck.

A woman answered the door. Dark hair cut short. Latino, maybe South American. "Can I help you?"

Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands were damp and soapy. She'd been washing dishes. In the room behind her, a baby was poking his head through the bars of a playpen.

"Ma'am, I'm Freddy Newendyke from the LAPD." She glanced down at his badge and looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Are you Irene Nash?"

"Yes."

Deep breath. "I knew your husband Marvin. I was –" He faltered. Swallowed. Started again. "I was there when he died."

_A/N: God, I would hate to be in Freddy's shoes. How awkward. Some people have complained about Freddy waiting until the very last minute to shoot Blonde, thus letting Marvin get tortured, and Freddy was definitely conscious because of his "Now you heard 'em. They said he's on his way," comment. But he very well could've been drifting in and out of consciousness, right? Reviews are welcome._


	2. Briefing Over Beer

**Chapter 2: Briefing Over Beer**

The Riverbottom Pub was a popular cop hangout, especially on Fridays. It was good for a few beers, the music wasn't bad, and – most importantly – there was a cigarette machine. There was also a moth-eaten buffalo head hanging on the wall near the dance floor, but Freddy was willing to forgive them that.

He was sitting in a booth with Holdaway, McKlusky, and Andrews, gulping down beers and munching on dry ribs and nachos.

"Okay McKlusky," said Holdaway, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Whaddaya got?"

The computer operator put down her glass, and looked at her notes which were now stained with grease and barbecue sauce. "George "Dov" Dover is our guy," she reported. "He and Joseph Cabot did some time together back in 'fifty-two when they were small-time crooks. Both busted for petty theft, and records show they were cellmates. After that he became Joe's right-hand man. Managed to stay outta trouble too, cuz he worked more in the business side of organized crime and was never directly involved in Cabot's jobs."

"And you think the power passed to him?" asked Freddy.

McKlusky nodded. "By all reports he was next in the chain of command," she said. "With Joseph and Edward Cabot dead, he's the only one with the knowledge and experience to keep the business running. And even with that they're not in the best of shape."

"What d'you mean?" asked Andrews, speaking for the first time that night. A half-eaten nacho was hanging out of his mouth. Granted, Freddy was a sloppy eater himself, but this kid had the table manners of a fucking goat. One of his many charms that made him among the most annoying people on the planet, in Freddy's opinion.

It was Holdaway who answered him. "With the Cabots dead as fuckin' fried chicken, most of their connections are gone, man. They were on the way down anyway when Freddy got inside. The gang is weak. Most of the soldiers took off, except for a few still working for this Mr. Dover motherfucker."

"They've switched most of their company names too," McKlusky put in. "For example, Reservoir Trading Incorporated is now Turtledove Supplies. And they've abandoned all of their old warehouses."

Freddy peeled the cellophane off a new pack of cigs and lit up. "And what's the word on Vega?" he asked, blowing a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

McKlusky and Holdaway exchanged glances. "No word yet," said McKlusky as she wiped her hands on a paper napkin. "He's still at large, and he could be halfway to Bermuda by now."

"Yeah, but what if he's still in LA and thinkin' of working for this Dov guy?"

"That ain't our job, Freddy," Holdaway pointed out. His voice was stern. "Our job is to get Dover, and stop them from regaining power and carrying out more fuckin' organized crime, man."

"I know, I know," said Freddy, waving his hands.

Holdaway gave him a long look, then turned to Andrews. "Right. So now we wait for the call. You ready to meet this motherfucker, Jeffrey?"

The rookie cop jumped at being addressed and nervously pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. He swallowed thickly. "I dunno," he mumbled, and his face flushed.

Freddy rolled his eyes and glanced at Holdaway. "Jim…"

"How many times do I hafta tell you?" the older man snapped. "The answer is no, Newendyke. You can't go undercover thanks to that fuckin' article. Remember?"

"How can I forget?" replied Freddy sarcastically. "But that was printed over four fucking months ago."

Holdaway slammed his hand down on the table, causing McKlusky and Andrews to jump. "I don't care if it was four fucking years! They printed your name and picture, and identified you as a cop."

"It's a sh–"

"I know it's a fuckin' shitty picture, man. But we can't take any chances. And with Vega runnin' around somewhere, there's no way in hell you're gonna get this assignment. So just shut – the fuck – up! Andrews," he said, turning to glare at the other cop, who shrank back in his seat. "Are you fuckin' ready, kid?"

"I – well –" Andrews looked into Holdaway's face and appeared to deflate. "Yeah, I'm ready," he said softly.

"Good." The older man finished his beer and dropped a few crumpled dollar bills on the table. "Well I'm off. Dinner with the wife and kids tonight."

When he left McKlusky rolled her eyes. "God, Jim can be a real prick sometimes."

"Tell me about it," Freddy grumbled, shredding a napkin to pieces.

Earl Thomas Conley crooned the last few bars of "Holding Her and Loving You", and the next song on the juke box began with a few strums of a guitar: "Only You". McKlusky dropped a half-eaten rib back onto her plate. "It's our song!" she squealed. "Scuse me, boys." She jumped up and pranced over to where her husband Brad was talking to some of his buddies.

"Hey babe," he said cheerfully. "You done workin'?"

"Honey, you know it," said McKlusky, and dragged him to the dance floor as the other cops clapped and whistled.

Freddy turned away bad-temperedly. He was grateful to be back on field duty, but it was frustrating as hell to work on a case that had such close ties to Vega, without being allowed to investigate the bastard. He drained his beer and glared moodily around the room, noting that Andrews was watching him.

"Hey, man," said the rookie hesitantly. "Could I ask you somethi–"

"I'm leaving," Freddy said flatly. He threw some money on the table and stalked out of the pub, throwing his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk. It wasn't fair that the undercover job was going to this kid Andrews. He and Holdaway had prepped the young cop as best they could, but they all knew that Freddy was better at this sort of thing. He was a hell of a liar, if that was anything to brag about.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Christ, the kid had come out after him. Freddy ignored him and started to walk down the sidewalk. "Listen man, I know you wanted the undercover job –"

"No fuck."

"If it means anything, I think you should do it too. I asked Ferchetti to give it to you but he said no."

Freddy stopped still. He turned to Andrews, who was watching him anxiously, and all of his anger at this innocent-looking guy, with his ginger hair and thick plastic-rimmed glasses, dissipated. It wasn't the kid's fault that he had been first pick for this assignment. "You wanted to ask me something?" he said quietly.

The younger man's face broke into a smile. "Yeah. It's kind of –" He stopped, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"Listen, Andrews," said Freddy. "When I walked out of that pub I did so with the sole intention of getting properly drunk. You wanna come with?"

They walked down the road to a hole-in-the-wall bar that Freddy sometimes frequented whenever he wanted to be left alone. After a few drinks they were laughing together like old buddies. Andrews obviously couldn't hold his liquor, and neither could Freddy ever since his recovery.

"So tell me," Andrews slurred, spilling half his drink down the front of his shirt. "Ha! Okay, so tell me, what was it like workin' undercover? I mean, were you as fuckin' scared as I am now?" He let out a nervous giggle.

Freddy sobered up a bit at that question. "I dunno how scared you are now, Andrews," he pointed out, giving the question serious thought. He stared, frowning, at the counter. "For me, it was the scariest fuckin' thing I ever did. Every day I thought they'd find out. Everything – some little glance, some remark, _everything_ – I thought it meant they knew who I really was."

Andrews was staring at him with his mouth open, hanging on his every word. With this kind of undivided attention, Freddy started to get more into it.

"I remember this one time, I got a call from Nice Guy. They were waiting for me outside. That was it, man. That was my last chance to back out, only at that point I couldn't, y'know? I couldn't go back – shit, I couldn't even go fuckin' sideways. I could only go forward. And I was fuckin' scared. So I looked in the mirror, and talked myself into walking out that door and getting into the car."

"Jesus." Andrews drained his glass and waved for a refill. "I'm sure glad it's not just me, man."

"I'd be more worried if you _didn't_ feel nervous," Freddy remarked. "But you're safer than I was. We got visibility of the office interior, and there'll be people on the lower floors of the building. Holdaway and I will be watching the feed. And you'll be in and out of there in less than thirty minutes."

The rookie passed a hand over his face. "Still, Freddy. I mean, I know you an' Holdaway have been prepping me for this. But so many things can go wrong."

Freddy looked at the kid's miserable face. Shit, _he'd_ never looked that scared when preparing for his job. Okay, maybe he had a few times, but never in front of anybody else. He squeezed the other guy's shoulder reassuringly. "You're ready. Don't pussy out on me now, Andrews. Besides," he grinned, "when are you ever gonna get the chance to pretend to be a criminal? When you're not shittin' bricks, it can be fun sometimes."

The young cop forced a smile. "Thanks man," he said, quietly hiccupping. They sipped their drinks. "Did you go see Irene?" asked Andrews.

Freddy looked into his glass. "Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

"I never want to do anything like that again," he admitted. "It was so awkward. All I did was make her upset. I mean, fuck, how do you talk to the wife of a guy who was killed in front of you?"

"I hear ya." They were broodingly silent for a minute, then ordered more drinks.

_A/N: The Riverbottom Pub is a cop hangout mentioned in Tarantino's "Jackie Brown", starring Pam Grier. I bet our Reservoir Dogs would've loved to watch that one. If you remember, "Dov" is the guy Eddie was talking to on the phone as he drove to the warehouse after the robbery, as quoted in the first chapter._


	3. Target Practice

**Chapter 3: Target Practice**

Freddy eyed the target and raised his gun. A Beretta 92FS.

For the robbery, Joe Cabot had given them all firearms to be used just that once and then disposed of. Untraceable. Freddy remembered the old man pulling out the case and showing them a shiny row of Smith & Wesson automatics. Freddy had never used one before. 9mm model 5906, double-action, stainless steel – these guns had been fucking cool. They'd traded in their own weapons, Freddy handing over the revolver he'd used for his persona as a street tough, Pink relinquishing his Glock17, and Larry pulling out two .45s. It had been like fucking Christmas with the robbers grinning over their shiny new weapons.

Ever since Freddy had been a kid, sneaking out of bed with the other foster child Luke to watch cop shows, he'd wanted to fire a gun. It was the next-best thing to having a superpower, or that's what little Freddy had believed anyway. People respected you if you had a gun; they put up their hands and did whatever you said. That was appealing to the skinny-ass kid who might as well have been wearing a neon sign that said "bully me". And unlike superpowers, you could _learn_ to fire a gun. It was one of the things he'd most looked forward to when he joined the Academy. He'd practically memorized the issues of _Guns & Ammo_, and he'd been among the top shooters in his class.

Not anymore, though.

Freddy clenched his jaw and peered down the sights of the Beretta, holding it in a two-handed grip. He'd hardly ever fired with two hands while on the job; that was for pussies. Using one hand looked way more badass. After waking from the coma, however, he'd had to work hard to regain his muscle coordination, and it was still at a point where he couldn't fire near as well as he could before the injury.

Breathe in, let the breath half out, hold it, and squeeze the trigger…

_BLAM!_

A tiny hole appeared in the paper target, four inches below the bulls-eye. Freddy let out the rest of his breath in a huff of exasperation. This was getting fucking ridiculous. He glanced through the bulletproof glass at the people on either side of him to see if they'd noticed, but they were intent on their own targets.

Shit, this should be second nature to him. Before the job he'd be able to hit this target with a fucking blindfold on. It was his long-honed reflexes that had caused him to shoot that woman, though. The first person he'd ever killed. Guns had been cool to him before, but that freak accident had changed everything. A woman with a bag of groceries in the front seat and a baby's carseat in the back – that definitely hadn't been his idea of the first person he'd kill in the line of duty. He hadn't been able to forget it either, replaying those few seconds over and over in his head.

Heck, but his reflexes had also allowed him to unload in Vega's chest, buying poor Marvin a few more minutes in this world. Freddy sighted once more. "C'mon, man," he muttered to himself. What with the loud firing and everyone wearing plastic earmuffs, he wasn't worried about being overheard talking to himself. "C'mon, you can do this. Just pretend it's Vic fuckin' Vega. That's his head you're aiming for, right between the eyes. Look out, you crazy motherfucker…"

_BLAM!_

One inch below. Better. Freddy smiled. He knew that going after Vega was out of the question, especially with him assigned to a different case, but it was still nice to imagine gunning down that psychotic bastard.

Thinking about Vega reminded Freddy of Marvin, which reminded him of his visit with Mrs. Nash. That had been an experience he never wanted to repeat. She'd been so surprised that she forgot to invite him in, so he'd been left standing stupidly at the door trying to talk about Marvin's last moments without _actually_ talking about Marvin's last moments. At one point she'd started to cry, and Freddy had looked away out of embarrassment, but then found himself staring at the little kid in the crib. Mrs. Nash told him that Derek was six months old now, and to Freddy the baby had looked disturbingly like Marvin. Same dark hair, same chin, same wide innocent eyes with a look of "what the fuck?" in them.

Mrs. Nash seemed to be coping well enough. In their forced, overly-polite, fucking uncomfortable as hell conversation about nothing in particular, she'd told him she was working. Her neighbours took care of Derek while she was out because she couldn't afford daycare or a sitter. Then she'd asked him how he was doing, and Freddy had mumbled something about being back on the job, and tried not to think about how Vega had managed to escape _again_. Freddy had been face-to-face with that bastard, and somehow Vega had walked away. Freddy had let that psychopath run off, and had gotten shot in the foot for his efforts. Some fucking job he was doing.

Freddy tried to push these memories out of his mind, and aimed for the target once more. As he breathed in, he found himself wondering if he should help Mrs. Nash out a little, give the woman some money or something. In a way it was his fault that she was now a widow and that Derek was without a father.

_BLAM!_

Shit. Missed entirely. Cursing under his breath, Freddy tucked the Beretta into his holster. The clock on the wall behind him indicated that his hour was up. He flipped an electric switch and retrieved the target.

Walking down the corridor with that incriminating piece of paper in hand, he tried not to look at the row of cops all firing much fucking better than he was, and left through the air-lock door. Back in the foyer he removed his safety glasses and earmuffs, just catching the last sounds of gunfire before the door swung shut again. He strolled over to the front desk.

"Hey Freddy," greeted Oscar, the range master. "How'd it go?"

In answer Freddy slapped the target down on the counter. Oscar pulled it towards him and scrutinized the holes. "Distance?"

"Twenty yards. Pretty good for firing with my eyes closed, huh? Too bad they were open."

"Hmm." The range master looked up. "Well, you're improving anyway."

"Yeah like that's really tough, given how I've been shooting the past couple weeks," Freddy retorted.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Just shut up and listen, Freddy. You're improving. You gotta give yourself some slack, kid. If you think a bullet to the head doesn't fuck up your aim a bit, then you're a fucking idiot."

Freddy grumbled a bit but couldn't hold back a wry smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Oscar. Really. Your words are truly inspiring."

"Freddy…"

"It's true, man. Whenever I leave this place I'm more fuckin' relaxed than after a session with the fuckin' psychiatrist. That ain't no joke."

The range master smirked. "It's not me. See, you're one of those punk-ass kids with a shitload of problems carrying over from your childhood, y'know? A guy who never lets out those raging emotions until he fires a gun. That's why you feel better."

Freddy blinked. "Very insightful, man," he said dryly. "You got me all figured out."

Oscar cuffed him on the side of the head. "Didn't you learn to respect your elders? Anyway, I don't give a shit if you're obsessed with guns – I'm the fucking range master for Chrissake. But it's a good thing you're on this side of the law, Freddy, or you'd be a fucking liability."

"I'll try to take that as a compliment." He returned the safety glasses and plastic earmuffs, exchanged friendly good-byes with Oscar, and left the shooting range.

Just outside the door he crumpled up his target and tossed it into the trash. Despite Oscar's encouragement, the last thing he needed was a reminder of his incompetence. Fuck it, if he ever came across Vega in his walks around town he'd just unload the full clip and hope that a stray bullet or two hit him.

It was a hot and sunny day, and Freddy paused on the sidewalk to put on his shades. Just as he was about to slip them over his eyes, something caught his attention: an arm carrying a bag of groceries. An arm with a tattoo… a snake tattoo? Something in Freddy's memory stirred, and he squinted at the owner of the arm. It was a cute little Asian chick in a tiny skirt. He stared at her, trying to remember where he'd seen her before.

She looked up and caught him staring, and seemed to slow down, clutching the paper bag of groceries to her chest with a strange expression on her face. Freddy suddenly remembered where he'd seen her: Smokey Pete's bar in Gardena. She had been wearing a yellow dress, and they'd checked each other out before Freddy had gotten a call from Holdaway about Vic Vega. That had only been a couple weeks ago, but it seemed like a year.

As they drew closer to each other, Freddy's mouth opened. He wasn't sure what to say, or even if he would say anything. But before he could even think about starting a conversation, Oscar came running out of the shooting range and grabbed his arm.

"Freddy," the range master said urgently, "you got a phone call from Holdaway. He said you weren't at home and didn't answer your cell, so he called the range."

"Thanks, Oscar." They hurried back to the door of the range. Freddy glanced over his shoulder at the girl, who was disappearing into the crowd, still shaken by that weird moment of contact. Then he started wondering what was so urgent that Holdaway had to talk to him right now.

It could only be about the job, maybe about Jeff's upcoming undercover work. Truth be told, Freddy was fucking nervous about that, though probably nowhere near as nervous as Jeff was. Freddy would gladly have done the work instead, nerves and all, but thanks to a certain bitch reporter he was potentially a known cop. No more undercover jobs for him. Freddy didn't know whether he wanted to kiss that reporter or strangle her.

Oscar handed him the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Freddy? We're on."

_A/N: Yes, the same Asian girl from the first story. And if you haven't read the first story yet, I suggest you give it a look, if only for clarity's sake._


	4. Undercover

**Chapter 4: Undercover**

"Okay gentlemen, we're live courtesy of Mr. Andrews." Kelvin leaned forward in his swivel chair and adjusted a few dials, carefully enhancing the resolution on the two video monitors.

Freddy peered at the fuzzy black-and-white images. In the corner of each screen was the time, blinking in digital numbers. "Where's he carrying the cameras?" he asked as he chewed his gum.

"This one's attached to his bag," said Kelvin gesturing at the left-hand monitor. "And _this_ baby –" he waved at the right-hand monitor, "is built into his glasses."

Holdaway let out a low whistle. "Nice job, Kelvin."

The techie smiled complacently. "I try."

"Is the mike working?"

Kelvin flipped a switch, and immediately they heard the sound of Andrews' footsteps as he walked down the street. "You wanna talk to him?" He passed Holdaway a microphone.

The older cop held down a button. "Hey man, how ya doin'?"

Andrews' voice came back over the speakers, laced with static. "I'm all right. I'm almost there, I can see you guys." Freddy watched the right-hand monitor as Andrews turned his head and looked at the van parked across the road.

"Okay, Jeff. We're keepin' a sharp eye out. If anything goes wrong we'll send our boys in, all right?"

"Check."

"Good luck, man."

Freddy sank into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. "You sure this is gonna work?" he asked in a low voice.

Holdaway glanced over at him. "I'm never fuckin' sure, man. If Sid comes through like he said he would, we should be okay. And we've got that scumbag by the balls."

"It should be me going instead."

The older man sighed and clenched his fists. "We've been over this, Freddy. A million motherfuckin' times."

Before Freddy could reply, he was cut off by Andrews' voice: "Okay, I'm going in."

The three of them held their breath as Andrews walked through the door and over the marble floor of the lobby to the front desk. The sound of his shoes seemed unnaturally loud. A pretty receptionist looked up and smiled at him. "I have an appointment with Mr. Dover," said Andrews. His voice was impressively steady.

The left-hand monitor, the one hooked up to the camera in the bag, was positioned to get a full view of the lobby. Freddy tensed when he spotted two guys built like gorillas rise out of their chairs and start to make their way over.

"Of course," said the receptionist, looking down at her appointment book. "You must be from Mr. Phillips. These two gentlemen will show you up."

The glasses camera swung towards the two thugs, and got a good view of their barrel-shaped chests. "Wonderful," said Andrews, and Freddy was relieved to hear that the kid sounded perfectly calm. The cameras jolted as Andrews was escorted to the elevator.

Once the elevator doors had slid shut, one of the thugs looked through Andrews' bag while the other frisked him. Freddy nearly swallowed his gum, he was so nervous. His heart was pounding. "Will they find the cameras?" he asked in a low voice.

"Unlikely," said Kelvin, though he looked as nervous as Freddy felt. "The one in the bag is in a hidden compartment." Freddy gazed at the left-hand monitor, which was jiggling about like crazy, but soon it stopped and they all let out sighs of relief.

There was some more movement on the right-hand monitor as Andrews adjusted his glasses. "Thanks," he said wryly, reclaiming his bag while one of the thugs examined his firearm. "It's not loaded," said Andrews, but the thug pocketed the weapon with a grunt.

They got out of the elevator on the sixth floor and walked down a wood-panelled hall. A young guy in a suit stopped them. Andrews swung his head slowly from side to side, and they all got a good view of a foyer. Several men were lounging in chairs, drinking and smoking and talking, all looking with interest at Andrews.

"Who're you?" asked the guy in the suit, eyeing the bag.

"Paul Mullen. Sid sent me."

The guy in the suit glanced at one of the thugs questioningly.

"He's clean, Teddy. Carrying this – unloaded."

Teddy examined the gun, then jerked his head. "Follow me." He knocked on the door, and poked his head in. "Guy here from Sid. Name's Paul Mullen."

"Send him in."

Andrews walked through the door, and into the room that used to be Joe Cabot's office. It looked very luxurious, even in grainy black-and-white video feed. Two large elephant tusks rose up behind the chair, and there was a truly atrocious elephant foot serving as a table on the side, holding a stack of files. The man sitting behind the desk, however, was not Joe Cabot.

Freddy squinted at the black-and-white image of George "Dov" Dover, the new head of the Cabot crime syndicate. He was Joe's physical opposite, tall and thin, and immaculate in a tailored suit. The lines in his face gave him a thoughtful, cunning look. He was like a man on the outside of a situation, looking in and laughing at what he saw.

"Good afternoon, Paul," said Dov, regarding Andrews with faint interest. "Take a seat. Would you like a drink?"

"Uh, sure," said Andrews, playing the uncultured rookie, though Freddy knew his nervousness was real. Just like Freddy had taught him; take what you're really feeling and let just enough of it show through to fit your character. Much easier than having to fake everything. More naturalistic, as Holdaway would say.

Andrews placed the bag on the desk, giving them all a view of the office. It was difficult to believe that this meeting was taking place in the nondescript building across the road.

"I understand you have something for me from Mr. Phillips?" Dov leaned back in his chair with a glass and smiled. It was a smile that said this man knew exactly what you were thinking. Freddy could only hope that Andrews wouldn't freak the fuck out and blow his cover.

Andrews cleared his throat nervously and put his glass down. "Yeah, Sid got your message. He sent me with it." Freddy watched Andrews' hands enter the frame and open the bag. He emptied the contents onto the desk: stacks of bills. "You can count it if you want." Andrews put the bag down so that the camera pointed towards the top of Dov's desk. Kelvin immediately started typing keys like mad, trying to improve the resolution.

"In a while. Was it difficult getting the full amount?"

"Yeah, a bit. Sid thought he'd have more time, but he appreciated you lowering the interest."

"Joe gave him more time. But lately I've had to call in a lot of unpaid debts. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm sure you understand. Tell that to Sid."

"Sure thing." Andrews paused, and the glasses camera shifted as he fidgeted in his chair.

Dov's eyes seemed to sharpen. "There's something else."

"Well… yeah." Freddy held his breath. This was the moment of truth. He and Holdaway paid no attention to Kelvin's frantic typing as they waited. "Sid told me a little about your situation. He said you were tryin' to build up the business again, and that you were looking for some guys." Dov's face was expressionless, and Andrews carried on. "I've known Sid a while, see. He knew I was on the lookout for some steady work, and he said with you, starting out again an' all, there'd be room for advancement."

Dov was looking thoughtful. Freddy knew that in order for Dov to revive the Cabot business, he'd have to replace the soldiers who had left when the Cabots died. "Do you have any experience?"

"Some intimidation jobs, mostly crackheads and junkies short on cash. Robbed a couple liquor stores. Held a rifle during one of Sid's gun deals."

"You ever do time?"

"As a juv. Never been caught since."

After a moment of silence, Dov leaned forward and reached for the phone. "This won't take a minute," he promised as he dialed. He waited patiently for someone to pick up. "Hey Sid? It's Dov… I got your money, don't worry. My question is about the kid you sent… Yeah, Paul. He's looking for employment? … How was he on the gun deal? … Yeah? … Maybe. I might call you later. Thanks, Sid."

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Sid seems to think you're a pretty good guy," said Dov thoughtfully. "Not a big imagination, but you do what you're told. Only thing is you don't look very intimidating with those glasses, but I guess that makes you less suspicious, and that'll be okay if you go with someone else." He regarded Andrews in an evaluating sort of way, and Freddy and Holdaway exchanged tense looks. Finally, Dov leaned back and clasped his hands on his stomach. "Tell you what, kid. You go home and wait for us to call you, and we'll talk more then."

"Okay." The right-hand camera shook as Andrews got to his feet. He shook hands with Dov and picked up the empty bag, to be shown out by Teddy. The two goons rode down in the elevator with him, and Freddy only allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief when Andrews walked out of the door. He was echoed by Holdaway and Kelvin.

"Shit," said Holdaway, sitting back and wiping his forehead. "The kid fuckin' did it."

"Didn't know he had it in him," Freddy admitted. "I might have to start calling him Jeff."

_A/N: I know the "hidden in an unmarked van across the road" situation is so cliché, but I still like it! It's the sort of stereotypical cool mysterious cop stuff Freddy would jump at doing. And Sid? He's the guy Joe was on the phone with at the beginning of the "Mr. Blonde" scene. Joe was telling Sid not to worry, and he knew he'd pay him back eventually._


	5. Jack Rabbit Slim's

**Chapter 5: Jack Rabbit Slim's**

Freddy drove down the street, squinting through the rain that had begun to fall. Not too far to go now.

Kelvin had analyzed the video footage they had gotten of the top of Dov's desk, and found a good shot of an open appointment book beside the telephone. Most of it had been obscured, unintelligible, or too blurry, but Kelvin found a meeting penciled in the previous weekend at a place called Jack Rabbit Slim's. Holdaway had contacts there, and a quick phone call confirmed that someone had information for them. Freddy had volunteered to check it out.

He pulled into the parking lot of the diner and stopped short, staring up at an enormous neon rabbit. "Jack Rabbit Slim's" the sign proclaimed, and underneath, "The Next Best Thing to a Time Machine" glowed in yellow. He was obviously at the right place, and it appeared to be in the middle of closing for the night. A few last patrons were leaving, dashing through the rain, and a giddy couple staggered out of the doors holding a shiny trophy.

Freddy stepped inside, dazzled by the neon as he shook rain from his jacket. An electric car track stood nearby, there were plastic tables shaded by umbrellas, old movie posters covered the walls, and a stage was surrounded by booths made out of old cars. A wall of TV monitors depicting a 1950's street scene flickered before turning off for the night. This was one fucking cool place.

"I'm sorry sir, we're closing."

A man with a marked resemblance to Ed Sullivan stood before him, wearing a large plastic button on his jacket that said: "Hi I'm Ed, pleasing you pleases me."

Freddy took out his wallet and showed his badge, still gazing around the place. "I need to speak with one of the waitresses, Susan," he said.

The Ed Sullivan look-alike tore his glance away from Freddy's scarred face to exchange significant looks with the little page standing beside him. "Oh no," he said with a broad smile. "You want to speak to Marilyn."

"I – I do?" asked Freddy, confused.

"Yes, you do. You said Susan, but you meant Marilyn. Say, the lady ain't in any trouble, now, is she?"

"No, nothing like that." Freddy frowned at the other man. "What do you mean by – ?"

"Well son, in this place my name's not Jerome, it's Ed. And this guy ain't Michael, he's the Phillip Morris Page. And that guy over there," he pointed at the bar where a man wearing glasses and a white dinner jacket was chatting with a guy dressed as Zorro. "His name ain't Steve, it's Buddy. Understand?"

"Right," said Freddy faintly. This place was a madhouse. He was watching Buddy Holly have a conversation with Zorro, Ricky Nelson was wiping down tables, and in a corner Mamie Van Doren was flirting with James Dean. "Right," he said with more self-assurance. "So, where's Su– er, Marilyn?"

In answer, "Ed" pointed at the door to the ladies' room, which was just opening. A gold high-heel shoe emerged, and was followed by the rest of the waitress Susan, who was the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. She was shrugging into a coat, swinging a big red purse from her hand.

"Oh Marilyn," called Ed, beckoning her over. She came, heels clicking on the black-and-white checkered floor, and looked at Freddy curiously. He thought she was even more gorgeous in person, and was suddenly very self-conscious of the scar on his right cheek. "This young fellow here would like a word with you. He's a policeman."

"Holdaway sent me," said Freddy by way of explanation, and the waitress' expression cleared.

"Maybe we should find someplace else to talk. You mind if I leave now, Eddie honey?" she asked in a breathy voice, and the man shrugged and smiled benignly. "Thanks. Tell Mamie I won't be needing a ride home tonight."

Freddy held the door open, feeling strangely surreal. That feeling abruptly vanished when she removed her bottle-blonde wig. They dashed through the rain to his car, and Freddy started the engine on the second try. "Where d'you wanna go?"

"We can get some coffee down the road," said the waitress, unpinning her brown hair. Now that she was out of the diner she spoke in her normal voice, which had a bit of a Southern drawl. "You got a name, officer?"

"It's detective," he corrected without really knowing why. He'd never given a fuck about rank. "I'm Freddy. And you're Susan Griffiths, right?"

The Marilyn look-alike smiled. "When I'm not working." She tucked the wig into her purse.

They pulled into the lot beside a Teriyaki Donut and ran through the pouring rain to the door, Susan holding her coat over her head. It was full of patrons getting some late-night chow. Susan felt uncomfortable sharing her information with other people around, so they took their order to go.

Soon they were sitting in Freddy's junk heap of a car, parked by the curb, slurping coffee and eating doughnuts. The rain was pounding on the roof and streaming down the windshield, and Freddy could barely make out Susan's features in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps. "So you got some information for us?" he asked, taking a large bite out of a Boston Cream.

"I think so. Holdaway said you were interested in some thin old man who was at the restaurant Sunday night. I mighta been his server."

Freddy took a manila envelope from the backseat and passed it to Susan. "Is that the guy?"

The waitress wiped icing sugar from her hands and pulled out the photo of Dov, angling it so that it caught the light from the streetlamp outside. "Yeah, that's him," she confirmed. "He was having dinner with a huge black guy. I mean a real whale, y'know? The guy's name is Tony."

"Tony?"

"Mm-hmm. Tony Rocky Horror. He's got a speech impediment now. I've seen him at the restaurant a couple times before."

Freddy swallowed the rest of his doughnut. "With the old guy?" he asked thickly.

"No, this was the first time I've seen that guy." She passed the photo back. "Whenever I saw Tony, he was always with another black guy. Called Marsellus, I think. Weird name, huh? Bald too."

Freddy fell silent. It sounded like Susan was describing the gangster Marsellus Wallace. But if Wallace was using Jack Rabbit Slim's to make deals, then it was clearly his territory. Freddy knew the Cabots never went to that place. Shit, he hadn't known this place existed before now. So if Dov had met with this Tony fellow, maybe he was trying to muscle in on some of Wallace's business. It was a risky move, and it meant that Dov was determined to revive the company. All the more reason to try to bring him down while he was still relatively weak.

"You hear what they were talking about, Susan?" asked Freddy after draining his coffee.

"Some of it. The old guy was trying to convince Tony to work for him I think. He mentioned salaries. Tony looked pretty nervous. Said he was risking a lot just by meeting him. I'm not sure what else they said, sorry."

"Hey, that's okay." Freddy raised an eyebrow. "You heard a lot. You've been a great help."

"Have I?" Susan stuffed her napkin into her paper cup and rolled down the window to toss it outside. The rain pattered loudly until she rolled the window back up. "People say things in front of me because they think I'm just some dumb blonde," she muttered. Her face was turned away but her voice was bitter.

"I don't think you're a dumb blonde," Freddy heard himself saying. "Even with the wig on."

He watched her silhouette against the window. "And you call me by my real name." She turned to him and cocked her head to the side. "You've got green eyes, don't you detective?"

"You must have really good vision."

"I noticed in the restaurant."

The rain sounded unnaturally loud now as it battered against the roof, but Freddy was still very aware of the sound of his own breathing. Golden light filtered through the back window, distorted by the rivulets of rain. Before he knew it, he was in the backseat of his car being straddled by a waitress he'd met less than an hour ago. Kissing fiercely – she tasted sweet, like strawberries – running their hands over each others' bodies, Freddy was strongly reminded of his hard-partying hormonal teenage years.

Susan broke their kiss to throw off her coat. "I've never fucked a cop before," she said throatily. Her hands went to the zipper of his jeans. "Mostly movie fans with loose purse strings who want some special time with Marilyn Monroe." She slid her hands tantalizingly up his shirt. "And Eric once. He's the James Dean look-alike. Some rich guy wanted to watch the two of us together."

"You know, this conversation won't exactly keep me in the mood," Freddy remarked, looking up from kissing her collarbone.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I – oh _my_." She was staring at the scars. One on the right side of his chest, and another on his stomach. "What happened to you?"

"I got shot while working undercover," he mumbled.

Her hand ghosted lightly over his right cheek. "This one too?"

"Yeah."

Susan looked at him and smiled. "That is _so_ hot."

After that they didn't talk for a while.

_A/N: And Freddy finally gets some! Jack Rabbit Slim's and everything inside it (including the staff) are, of course, from Pulp Fiction. For the real names of the look-alikes I took the names of the actors who portrayed them. Tony Rocky Horror and Marsellus Wallace are also from Pulp Fiction. Tony was the guy thrown out of his apartment window on Marsellus Wallace's orders, allegedly for giving Mia Wallace a foot massage._


	6. Tony Rocky Horror

**Chapter 6: Tony Rocky Horror**

Freddy sat near the entrance of the police station, looking at a pamphlet about tips for preventing break-ins. Not that he needed to know anything. He couldn't imagine what any robber would want from his shit apartment.

"Are you Freddy Newendyke?"

A pair of sandaled feet entered Freddy's field of view, and he looked up to see an Asian man wearing faded jeans and a "Save the Whales" t-shirt. The man's eyes flicked to the scar on his right cheek, but he didn't say anything and stuck out his hand. "I'm Detective Zack Jiang. We spoke on the phone."

"Oh, right." Freddy shook his hand and stood up, throwing aside the pamphlet.

Detective Jiang gestured towards the door of the station. "Let's go."

The bright sunlight made Freddy squint when he stepped outside, and he immediately put on his shades. Jiang led him to his car, and soon they were barreling down the street with the windows rolled down and the radio on. The other detective was definitely not what Freddy had been expecting. He was about his age, for one, and with his clothes, his tribal bead necklace, and his scruffy beard, he looked more like a stoner hippie than one of the detectives building a case against crime lord Marsellus Wallace.

"So where are we going?" asked Freddy, propping his elbow up on the open window.

Jiang turned down the radio. "A little strip bar I know. It's not open, but the owner's a buddy of mine and he'll let us in. And it's on neutral ground, which is what Tony's most concerned about."

"What can you tell me about Tony Rocky Horror?"

"Antwan Rockamora," said the other detective, pulling a file off the back seat and dumping it in Freddy's lap. "Thirty-six, half-black half-Samoan, been to county twice. Now that's one messed up son of a bitch. Fat too."

"Yeah, I heard," said Freddy, glancing at the mug shot. Jiang raised an eyebrow. "My contact," Freddy elaborated, smiling as he remembered Susan. "She said he had a speech impediment or somethin'."

"That's right. About a year ago, poor Tony had a little disagreement with Wallace. Long story short, Tony was thrown out of his apartment window, four floors up."

"No shit?"

Jiang nodded. "It's fucked up, man. Nobody really knows why, but there are all sorts of rumors. Anyway, Tony fell through a little greenhouse below the window. Ever since then Tony hasn't been on Wallace's regular payroll. He's not too fond of the old boss anymore, so it was pretty easy to get him to agree to this meeting."

Freddy was quiet for a moment, watching the pedestrians on the street. He was struck by a sudden thought. "Hey, d'you know about Vince Vega?"

"Sure I do," said the other detective, glancing into the rearview mirror. "He was one of Wallace's hit-men. Killed a few months back in some dude's bathroom."

"Did you know he had a brother?"

"No, I didn't. Was he also a ruthless cold-hearted son of a bitch?"

Freddy gave a grim smile. "Worse. He was a motherfuckin' psychopath." He bit his lip. "That's why I'm here now. I need to get that guy."

Jiang glanced over at him quizzically. "I thought you were on the George Dover case."

"Yeah I am," Freddy confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. "This thing with Vega… it's a little more personal. I think that if I get Dover, I can get him."

The other man grinned. "I see. Well, I hope Tony can tell you something useful."

They pulled into a driveway which led to a lot behind the club. Freddy glanced up at the neon sign: "Sam's Hoffin Braus". Jiang knocked on the door four times, and it was opened by a middle-aged man with a lumberjack beard. "Hey Zack!" he said, grinning like a motherfucking Santa Claus. "Good to see ya, kid. Come right on in. And your friend, too."

The club was dimly-lit and deserted, with stools stacked up on the bar and chairs on the tables. A stage that took up one end of the room had three dancing poles.

"Can I get you boys a drink?" the lumberjack asked cheerfully, throwing a towel over his shoulder.

"Not for me, Samuel, thanks," said Jiang, waving his hand. He turned to Freddy who shook his head. "We'll just take a table at the end. Now we don't wanna be disturbed or anything. This is a private conversation, right?"

Samuel put his hand over his heart. "Scout's honor."

Jiang led the way to the table in the back, and he and Freddy unstacked the chairs. Jiang put two close together, facing a third with its back to the door. "That oughta make him uncomfortable." They sat and waited.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Go right ahead," said Jiang, glancing at his watch. "Chubby's two minutes late. If he thinks he'll unsettle us by making us wait, he's gonna be disappointed." The detective put one sandal-shod foot on the edge of the table and tipped his chair back until it balanced on two legs, whistling softly between his teeth.

Freddy's cigarette was half-smoked when someone knocked on the door. Samuel went to answer it, and soon a man hurried into the club. He was easily three hundred pounds. Big, black, with a ponytail and a goatee. He spotted them and walked nervously to the table.

"Well sit down," said Jiang, gesturing at the empty chair. The man sat gingerly, and the chair creaked. He wasn't armed, but the two detectives were.

"I guess I'll make the introductions." Jiang let his chair fall forward so that the legs hit the floor with a bang. The fat man jumped. "Tony, this is Detective Newendyke."

Tony Rocky Horror gave Freddy a brief nod, before leaning towards Jiang. "H- h- hey man, I don't know w- w- why you called me h- here, but let me tell you that I'm r- risking my neck, and if Marsellus ever –"

"Marsellus isn't gonna know shit about this meeting," said Jiang evenly. "This is the Valley, Tony. Marsellus has no contacts here. Now relax. Have a cigarette."

"I don't s- s- smoke," muttered Tony.

"Of course you don't," said Jiang, shooting an amused glance Freddy's way. "Now Tony, Detective Newendyke would like to ask you a few questions. I told him that you're a good guy, a reasonable son of a bitch. Don't make me a liar. Detective?"

Freddy tapped ash into a little glass bowl. "Last weekend you had a meeting with someone." He watched Tony, who looked instantly on his guard. "I'd like to know what you discussed."

Tony licked his lips and glanced at Jiang, then back at Freddy. "H- hey listen, detective, w- w- what a man s- says to another is h- h- his own private business."

Freddy blew a stream of smoke into Tony's face, and the other man coughed. "I know you're worried that word about the meeting will get out. If the cops know, maybe Marsellus does too. Right? But I have to say, Tony, you were very stupid picking the meeting place. Right in your boss' backyard. Now, I understand that you wanted the home advantage, but come on."

Sweat glistened on the large man's brow, and he kept clasping and unclasping his hands.

"But luck seems to be with you," Freddy continued. "So far as we know, Marsellus has no idea what happened. Right, Detective?"

"Right," said Jiang.

"So," said Freddy, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray, "why don't you tell us what you were talking about? Should I help you along?" he asked when Tony remained silent. "Let me refresh your memory. You met George Dover at Jack Rabbit Slim's. You had the steak with extra chili fries, and he had the Fats Domino Cheeseburger. Does that ring a bell?"

"Shit, w- w- what do you w- want me to s- s- say, man?"

"Why did Dover want to meet you?" asked Freddy harshly, leaning forward. "He mentioned salaries. Was he trying to hire you? Did he want you to do a job for him?"

Tony looked desperately at Jiang, sweating profusely now. Jiang's eyes were cold. "Answer the question," he said quietly.

Tony gulped and glanced over his shoulder at Samuel, who was stacking glasses. "Dov w- wanted to h- h- hire me as a s- s- s- soldier," he whispered. "He s- said he'd h- h- heard about my old argument w- with Marsellus, and w- w- wanted to offer me a f- f- full-time position."

"And what did you say?"

The fat man stared at Freddy. "I refused, cuz Marsellus w- w- would kill me, even if I'm not on h- h- his payroll anymore."

"I don't know," said Jiang slowly. "Ever since your accident you've been desperate for some regular work. And Dover was probably offering a pretty sweet deal. Wouldn't you say so, detective?"

"Without a doubt," Freddy confirmed.

"You can s- say all you w- w- want, Greenpeace," said Tony, glaring at Jiang. "I may not be the s- s- smartest guy out there, but I know w- what Marcellus can do."

Jiang looked at Freddy, who finally nodded. "All right, Tony. That's all we wanted to ask you about. Take care of yourself. And go on a diet, for God's sake."

"F- f- fuck you, detective," said Tony. He heaved himself to his feet and lumbered to the door.

When he was gone, Freddy turned to Jiang and raised his eyebrows. "'Go on a diet'?" he echoed incredulously.

The other detective grinned. "Hey, someone's gotta save the whales," he said, pointing at the motto on his t-shirt. "Did you get what you wanted, Newendyke?"

Freddy nodded. "Shit yeah." He would be meeting the rest of the team tomorrow morning, and it felt good to be able to tell them something for a change.

_A/N: Tony Rocky Horror, Marsellus Wallace, and Vince Vega are of course all from the movie Pulp Fiction. Jules Winnfield describes Tony as a half-Samoan with a weight problem; Vince more bluntly calls him fat. Detective Jiang is my own invention, but I rather like him._


	7. An Unwanted Visit

**Chapter 7: An Unwanted Visit**

He was running late. Freddy rummaged through the files that had piled up around his little hole-in-the-wall office, scattering papers left and right. He was making a mess but he didn't give a flying fuck right now. Where'd he put his notes?

"Detective Newendyke?"

"What?" Freddy snapped, looking up. He stopped short when he realized who was standing in his doorway. "Er… Mrs. Nash." he said in a more normal tone of voice.

"Hello," said the young woman self-consciously. She looked around at the disarray. "May I come in?"

"Actually I'm on my way to a meeting and –"

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she interrupted, "but I just have a few questions." Mrs. Nash walked right into the cramped little room without waiting for an invitation. She obviously wasn't going to let Freddy turn her away. Great. "I really need to talk to you, Detective. You weren't answering my calls, so I decided to come down here in person."

Freddy leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms, trying not to look like he was deliberately avoiding eye contact. It was true, though. He didn't want anything more to do with her, not after having to go through the horrible experience of talking about her husband. He just wanted to close that chapter of his life.

Mrs. Nash brushed a wisp of short dark hair out of her face. "I have questions you refused to answer the day we met. I want to know more about Marvin." Freddy turned away in exasperation. "All you told me," she said a little louder, demanding his attention, "was that he saved your life. But you won't tell me what my husband went through. You won't say what happened to him."

"Why should I tell you what happened to him?" said Freddy harshly.

"Because he was my husband." Her dark eyes were blazing with righteousness like a fucking televangelist. "It's my right. You, you didn't even know him until the day he died, and you know more than I do about his last moments. How's that fair?"

Freddy walked closer to her. "You want to know what I know?" he sneered. "What, you really want to know how Marvin was tortured? How he pleaded for his life as gasoline was poured all over him? You want me to tell you what we talked about when all we could do was bleed all over the floor? Huh? You wanna hear how many times he was shot in the fucking chest? Do you?"

Mrs. Nash had been staring up at him with her mouth slightly open, and at this her eyes filled with tears. Freddy immediately felt like a jerk, and could only watch uncomfortably as she sobbed into her hands.

"Look, I'm – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Nash continued to weep, and Freddy tentatively put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She swayed forward like a drunk and clung to the front of his shirt, positively bawling. He held her awkwardly, wishing to fucking god that she'd shut up. "I'm sorry," he repeated. He patted her back lightly, shushing her and hoping that nobody would see him like this. He wouldn't be able to live it down, making a woman cry like this. "I shouldn't have said that to you. I'm such a jackass."

Mrs. Nash's sobs were getting quieter, and finally she took a deep breath and looked up at him. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her nose was streaming. "Yeah, you kinda are," she said with a watery smile. Freddy grinned and handed her a box of Kleenex, and then there was a very embarrassed moment as she straightened herself out and he tried to look anywhere but at her.

"I guess I should be going then," said Mrs. Nash quietly.

_Finally_. "Okay." Freddy opened the door.

She turned on the threshold and held out her hand. "I shouldn't have come. You're right. I'm sorry."

Freddy took her hand. "No, _I'm_ sorry. Those were terrible things to say to you. I just – I just have a lot on my plate right now."

Mrs. Nash smiled. "I understand."

They were still holding hands. And all of a sudden Freddy felt very, very confused. Up until this point he had thought of this woman as Marvin's wife, but now… She was quite pretty, it had to be said, even after she'd been crying her eyes out. And standing there she looked so small and unhappy. She was going through hell right now, and Freddy knew what that felt like. If only he could help her in some way –

"Good-bye, detective." Mrs. Nash gave him a peculiar look and extricated her hand from his grip. Freddy watched her leave the office.

"Shit," he muttered. He was in trouble. Attraction on his part was dangerous. If nothing else, it would be an insult to Marvin's memory. It would be best if he could just stay away from Mrs. Nash. Then he remembered the meeting. Oh _shit_!

"You're late, Newendyke."

"Yeah, I know. I was held up in my office by an attractive woman who threw herself into my arms. She wouldn't take no for an answer."

Holdaway turned to Jeffrey Andrews. "That's Freddy's pathetic idea of a joke, kid. You probably know by now this guy has no sense of humor. But I find if you ignore his attempts at being funny he'll eventually tell you the truth." The older man crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, looking at Freddy expectantly.

Freddy shrugged and offered the others an innocent smile. "Couldn't find my file," he said hefting said file for all to see.

Holdaway snorted, clearly not buying this new explanation. "We started without you," he said. "Jeff summarized the undercover job, what he noticed, any weird vibes, that sort of shit. He can fill you in later, a' right? All he's gotta do now is stay home and wait for Dov to call him in." Andrews gave a wan smile, and Freddy imagined that the kid wasn't too thrilled about his situation. "And McKlusky's been telling us about the guys working for Dov."

Freddy moved to sit on Holdaway's desk as all of the chairs were occupied.

"Right," said McKlusky, scanning a long sheet of computer printout. "So we covered the two gorillas in the elevator. We also got ID's on three of the guys outside the office. They definitely used to be Cabot's boys. The one called Teddy has been seen in the company of Nice Guy Eddie in the past. Quite high up too. The other guys are soldiers."

"Okay. So Dov's managed to keep a few of Cabot's boys. Now whatchoo got for us, Freddy?"

"I talked to your contact at Jack Rabbit Slim's." Freddy flipped open the file to the notes he'd made, and tried not to smirk at the memory of Susan in the backseat of his car. "Apparently that's Marsellus Wallace's turf. Dov was making some sort of deal with a guy called Tony Rocky Horror, who used to associate with Wallace in the same diner. I talked to a guy working on the Wallace case, uh… Detective Zack Jiang. He arranged a meet with Tony." He flipped to another page of notes. "Four months ago Wallace threw Tony out of his apartment window – for reasons unknown – and since then the guy's been part-time. Tony claims Dov was trying to solicit him for some full-time work as one of his soldiers." He closed the file. "If Dov's trying to proposition Wallace's goons, then he's gotta be desperate."

"Good," said Holdaway with satisfaction. "That's where we want him, man. If the company's in that big of a rut, then this Dov motherfucker won't be so careful about hirin' Jeff, and maybe they'll slip up. Nice work, Freddy. Kelvin, you're next."

"Right," said the techie. "I analyzed the footage, and we've got a few surveillance options. I got the blueprints of the office building." He rolled out a large sheet on top of Holdaway's desk, forcing Freddy to move over. "If we can get the office above it, we can drill a pinhole camera into the corner here. Now I noticed a phone in the hallway, and if Jeff can somehow put a mike on the bottom…"

Freddy tuned out. The technical stuff didn't really interest him. He cocked his head to read a newspaper lying beside him on Holdaway's desk. He hadn't read the news yet today, and usually limited himself to sports and comics. A small side column was topped with the photograph of a middle-aged woman, with the headline: "Local receives journalism prize". As Freddy scanned the article, he realized that the woman was the very same bitch reporter who had snuck into the hospital to take pictures of him while he was comatose, thus compromising his identity and preventing him from ever going undercover again. What a nosy bitch.

Freddy scowled, but soon forgot about everything when a stabbing pain went through his right temple. He brought his hands up to his head and bent over, scrunching his eyes shut. Dimly he heard the concerned voices of the others asking him what was wrong. He cracked his eyelids open and immediately shut them against the light. A wave of nausea hit and he broke out into a cold sweat. Arms went around his shoulders, and Freddy barely noticed as he was guided down the hall and back into his own office. He could hear somebody closing the blinds, but every little sound was enough to send his brain into agony.

"Just lie down," said McKlusky, and he sank onto the couch. There were sounds of people moving about, and somebody put a cool cloth over his eyes.

"I'll be okay," he murmured. "Just leave me for a minute?" The door softly closed.

What seemed like a few hours passed by hazily, during which the door opened softly for people to check up on him. Freddy had experienced severe headaches before, but this one would qualify as a full-blown migraine. Finally, the pain subsided enough for Freddy to hazard opening his eyes. He felt lightheaded, almost as if he was suffering from a hangover.

All he could hope was that Frankie wouldn't see this as sufficient cause to take him off the case. He'd lied about the intensity of his headaches, and had managed to hide them until now. Maybe if he said he'd forgotten to take his medication…

The room was dim, but he could still make out shapes and forms. And there was one object by the door that did not belong. Freddy frowned. It was an umbrella.

"What the –?" Realization hit him like a tidal wave. The umbrella belonged to Irene Nash. "Shit…" Freddy muttered, closing his eyes and letting his head loll back. He didn't want anything more to do with Marvin or Irene or Derek, but he was going to have to return that fucking umbrella.

_A/N: God, how awkward. Mrs. Nash should just leave him alone._


	8. Freddy's Day Off

**Chapter 8: Freddy's Day Off**

Back on the clean suburban Nash doorstep. Freddy thought he'd never have to come back here, but it seemed that someone up above didn't like him very much. Hopefully nobody would be home and he could just leave the umbrella on the welcome mat.

He had just spent another disappointing morning at the shooting range. He was still using a two-handed grip, after his first single-handed shot had completely missed the target. Talk about embarrassing; he was becoming a fucking disgrace to the force. Usually firing a few rounds relaxed him, but this time he'd just become more and more tense, knowing that afterwards he'd have to go to the Nash residence to return that stupid umbrella. He was so pissed off when he left that he snapped at Oscar the range master for no good reason. It just wasn't a good day for Freddy Newendyke. He couldn't wait to go home and guzzle down a six-pack.

Freddy shaped his hand into a gun and pushed the doorbell, giving a deep and disappointed sigh when he heard footsteps approaching. Mrs. Nash opened the door. "Detective," she said, obviously surprised.

Freddy waved the umbrella. "You left this in my office. It's my day off so I brought it by." Inwardly, he winced at how curt he sounded. It was because of his disappointing morning, but it was also because of that weird moment in the office, when he'd held her hand. Marvin's widow was an attractive woman, but very definitely off-limits.

"Oh. Thank you." She looked embarrassed, and Freddy was too when he remembered what had happened the last time they met. He'd been a complete asshole and she'd ended up crying like a baby. Not a good memory for either of them. "Would you like to come in for a moment?" she asked, opening the door wider.

Freddy opened his mouth, trying to think of some excuse to refuse, but he'd already said that it was his day off. Fuck. "Okay." He'd just have to keep the visit short. Not get too close or anything. He stepped inside, and saw little Derek in his playpen watching cartoons. "Isn't he a bit young to watch TV?" he asked.

Mrs. Nash smiled. "It keeps him occupied. Coffee?"

"Thanks." He strolled through the doorway and sat down awkwardly at the table. The trim kitchen with its bright colours and warm smells was a stark contrast to his own shit apartment. This was a proper home. This had been Marvin's home. Fuck, he had to stop thinking about that guy, because that led inextricably to Ve–

"Cream? Sugar?"

"Both." Freddy dragged his mind away from the dark turn his thoughts had been taking, and concentrated on how he could cut the visit short without seeming rude. And trying not to notice how nice his hostess looked from behind. Christ, he needed a smoke.

Mrs. Nash set a steaming mug down in front of him, and sat across the table with her own. For a second or two they sipped in uncomfortable silence.

"I'm glad you came by, detective," she said finally. "I wanted to thank you for what you did in the office. I had no right to ask you to relive…" She winced at how she sounded, and began again. "You see, ever since Marvin… ah fuck. What I mean to say is, I needed to come back to reality. It was painful, what you said, but truth is painful. Right?"

Freddy was glad he didn't flush easily. Damn, this was so fucking awkward. "I guess."

"And you were really nice about it, when I – you know –" Cried on his shoulder? Not like he had a choice there.

"Don't mention it, Mrs. Nash," he said quickly.

"Right." She looked more than a little relieved, and they both relaxed. "Look, call me Irene."

He nodded, and placed a hand on his chest. "I'm Freddy."

"Hi." They both grinned at the absurdity of introducing themselves after having met twice before. "So… how's your job going?"

Freddy knew that she was just thinking up bullshit for them to talk about, but he didn't hold it against her. He was doing the same thing. Just talk about bullshit, finish your coffee, and leave. Simple. "It's okay, I guess. I'm on a new case now."

Irene's face lighted up with interest. "Are you allowed to talk about it?"

"Yeah, some parts." He resisted the urge to brag and exaggerate. He knew that if he started describing the case, he'd be jabbering on all afternoon and probably boring the shit out of her. "We're investigating organized crime. It's not very interesting. Lots of research, interviewing people, that kind of stuff. All of the exciting work is done by someone else." He saw that Irene had noticed the note of bitterness in his voice, and he took another sip of coffee to hide his self-consciousness. "So what d'you do for work?" he asked, changing the subject.

Irene thankfully let the moment pass. "I'm a medical clerk at the children's hospital. Don't look so impressed," she said with a cynical smile. "It's just a fancy word for a receptionist. Eight fun-filled hours of working a switchboard."

"Does it pay well?"

"Pretty well. I'm part of a union, so it's enough. And I'm saving up for a trip to Argentina. My parents live there."

Freddy wagged a finger at her. "I _thought_ you must be from South America." He gave a triumphant smile.

"Is it really that obvious?" Irene turned her head to the side as if modeling for a photo shoot. And all at once Freddy found it very difficult to ignore just how pretty she was.

"I've never been to South America," he said, desperately trying to keep the conversation going. Just stick with neutral topics. "Only Mexico."

"Yeah? Well you should go sometime."

"Maybe." They shared a smile. Christ, was it getting warm in here? "Anyway, it'd have to wait until…" He stopped short. Until he got Vega. Everything just kept coming back to that crazy motherfucker.

Irene was looking at him questioningly. "You're preoccupied with something," she observed hesitatingly. "I saw it when you first visited me, and when we were in your office. Is it about the case you're working on?"

Freddy looked away, nearly squirming. She had a right to know. If not everything, she had a right to know some things. "Listen," he said quietly, looking at the tabletop. "What happened to Marvin – it was partly my fault." Irene shifted in her seat, but he didn't dare look up at her in case he lost his nerve. "I was working a robbery undercover. Stuff went wrong – the alarm got tripped, the guys started shooting – and Marvin was taken hostage. They interrogated him about being set up, and he didn't say anything. I owe him my life for that." He paused, wondering how much he should say. "Now, one of the robbers hurt Marvin pretty bad. I thought I'd killed him, but it turns out he's alive and on the loose. The cops – we tried to track him down, and I was so close to getting him again but he slipped away. It's him I'm after. I've gotta get this guy, Irene."

The woman was staring at him, and Freddy wondered if he'd done the right thing telling her so much. He'd tried to leave out the bloody details, but this couldn't be easy for her. Shit, it wasn't exactly a walk in the park for him either.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"What?"

"Thank you for telling me." A small frown line appeared between her eyebrows. "But I don't agree with you. What happened to Marvin wasn't your fault." She surprised him by taking his hand in hers. "I look at you Freddy, and I see a man obsessed. You think that catching this criminal will atone for Marvin's death."

Freddy looked away. "He's sick, Irene. A madman. I couldn't kill him properly the first time. I can't let what happened to Marvin happen to anyone else."

She squeezed his hand. "Was he the one who gave you that scar?" she asked, her voice gentle.

Freddy's free hand went automatically to his right cheek. "No, that was – someone else."

Irene was looking at him with such sympathy and understanding. He was stuck between feeling uncomfortable under her piercing gaze, feeling resentful for her pity, and feeling pathetically grateful for her compassion. It was a very confusing mixture.

"I want to help you, Freddy."

Christ, it really _was_ getting warm in here. His eyes could be playing tricks on him, but he thought he detected a delicate flush on her cheeks. Her hand felt soft and pliant, and he suddenly let go of it. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, screaming "Emergency!" – he had to get out of here.

"I have to get out of here."

Shit, shit, _shit_. "Uh – dry-cleaning," he improvised. "They're very particular about closing times. And they close early on – um – Wednesdays." Fuck, that had to be the stupidest excuse he had ever come up with. He must be _really_ flustered if that was the best he could do.

He stood to go, leaving his cup of coffee half-drunk, and banged his knee against the table as he hastily moved towards the door.

"I'll show you out," Irene said quietly. Freddy looked at her. Had he hurt her feelings? That was the last thing he'd wanted to do, coming here.

As Irene passed by him in the kitchen doorway, she paused. She slowly turned and looked up at him, and he looked down at her. Freddy's heart was pounding and he suddenly realized how very close they were. He could smell her perfume. Her eyelashes were long and black. They could feel each others' breath.

Suddenly they were kissing, hard enough to make the blood rush from their lips and their teeth click together. Freddy was dimly aware of the sounds of the TV in the other room, where little Derek was. They moved back into the kitchen, bumping into furniture and appliances, struggling with their clothes. A blender crashed heedlessly to the ground. It was just a matter of time before he lost his balance and they dropped to the kitchen floor.

_A/N: The rest I'll leave to your imagination._


	9. Homecoming

**Chapter 9: Homecoming**

Freddy strode into Holdaway's office, banging the door closed behind him. "What was so important that I had to come in right away?" he demanded, ignoring the stares of the other men in the room.

Holdaway crossed his arms and grinned. "What's the matter, Newendyke? Were you on a date?"

"Maybe," said Freddy with a twisted smile. Holdaway rolled his eyes and snorted in disbelief. "C'mon, Jim. It's my motherfuckin' day off."

"_I_ told him to call you in." Freddy turned to see Captain Frankie Ferchetti leaning against the wall. Fuck. Was he off the case? Was this about the headaches? Andrews was occupying one of the chairs in front of Holdaway's desk and Kelvin was standing nearby. They all looked serious and strangely apprehensive. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Okay," said Freddy slowly, taking the empty chair beside Andrews and looking from one face to another. "Someone mind telling me what's goin' on?"

Frankie nodded at Andrews, who licked his lips nervously and polished his glasses on his shirt. "I was called in today by Dov," he explained. "He said he wanted to show me the ropes, and took me to lunch with Teddy. While we were there, Dov got a call on his cell phone. It…" He hesitated and looked at Frankie for help.

The Captain crossed his arms. "Freddy, you sit there and hear us out, all right?" At Freddy's nod, the older man gave him a piercing look. "It was Vega."

Freddy's skin went cold. His heart was pounding in his ears. His throat was dry as sandpaper. They were all staring at him as if expecting him to say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He noticed that he was gripping the arms of the chair very hard. And that was odd, because he was having trouble seeing straight.

Frankie nodded at Kelvin, who slid a tape into the player on Holdaway's desk. "Jeff was wearing a wire, and this is what we got," he said, pressing the Play button.

There was a hiss of static, and the faint babble of voices and chink of cutlery on plates. A busy restaurant, a family place. Then Freddy heard the squeak of a chair as someone sat down, and then Dov's voice: "Well Teddy, you won't believe it but an old friend of ours is in town."

"Yeah?" said another voice, a younger man, sounding indifferent. "Who called?"

"Toothpick."

"Really?" The Teddy guy sounded much more interested now. "What'd he say?"

There was the loud click of a cup on a table. "He wants to meet with us, see about getting his old job back. He'll be coming by the office a week from Friday." There was a pause, then, "Maybe you'd like to come along too, Paul."

"Sure," said Andrews, alias Paul Mullen, doing an admirable job of sounding oblivious. "Who is this guy anyway?"

"You ain't heard of Toothpick Vic?" asked Teddy incredulously. "Shit, the guy's a fucking legend."

Freddy stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. Kelvin switched off the machine, an anxious look on his sallow face. "That's pretty much it," said Frankie quietly. "We thought you should know."

Freddy turned and walked to the window, leaning his hands on the sill to look down. All of those people passing by on the sidewalk, completely ignorant of the drama playing out a few storeys above them. "So what are we gonna do to get this guy?" he asked, forcing himself to sound calm. He turned and leaned back against the sill.

Frankie and Holdaway exchanged glances. "Jeff is going to be in the office next Friday, and so are Dov, Teddy, and the rest of the gang. Jeff found out that they'll be planning their next few operations. They've collected nearly all of the debts owed to the Cabots, and on that Friday they'll be pitching ideas for jobs and paying out. Everyone's going to be there, and the dirty money too, so that's when we're going to move in. With any luck, Vega will be with them when we make our move."

"That's it?" Freddy demanded. They had to be fucking kidding. "You're going to round up the gang and just hope that Vega is there? _With any luck?_ Fuck that, this is our chance!"

Captain Ferchetti frowned. "We've spent weeks scraping up evidence against Dov and the others. For once we can put this gang out of business, Freddy. We're not going to risk our opportunity to take down an entire gang for just one man. That's ridiculous."

Freddy started pacing. "This is fucked up," he said under his breath. "Vega is a psychopathic killer. He's more dangerous than any of those guys."

"Apprehending Vega isn't our primary goal," said Frankie levelly.

"Then make it a separate operation," Freddy urged, pleading with the older man. "We know where Vega's going to be, and when. We only need a few guys, I can lead the team –"

"No, Freddy." The tone of Ferchetti's voice brooked no argument. "Look. Holdaway persuaded me to let you take part in this, against my better judgment. But if you even think of going after Vega without orders, you're off the case. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Freddy said to the floor.

"Good." Frankie's expression softened. "Kid, go home and get some rest. And I want you to make another appointment with Dr. Moss."

Freddy glared at Ferchetti and left the office, brushing rudely past his colleagues on his way to the stairs. He hated Dr. Moss. That nosy sick-minded psychoanalytic bastard asked him about everything from how often he prayed to how his sex life was. Freddy had made it a point not to answer any questions he perceived as being particularly stupid, which was usually all of them. What exactly was he supposed to say? He could just picture it now: "Gee, doc, my sex life is just peachy. Holdaway set me up with a Swiss stripper called Sandy when I got out of the hospital. Then I fucked a Marilyn Monroe look-alike in the backseat of my car. And now I've slept with the widow of a cop who was killed in front of me when I was working undercover. How 'bout you?" Yeah fucking right.

He walked down the street, still seething. People took one look at the pissed-off expression on his face and the firearm at his side and stepped out of the way. There was no fucking way he was going to see the psychiatrist again. Shit, he didn't need a fucking psychiatrist. He needed a fucking shotgun with Vega in his sights. The guy was fucking insane, responsible for who knows how many deaths, and had ruined countless lives. His. Irene's. A sick motherfucker like him felt absolutely no remorse, and would kill again. Service with a smile.

Freddy arrived back at his apartment no calmer than when he had left the station. Why couldn't these idiots see how necessary it was to get Vega once and for all? He fumed as he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the faucet to make the water as hot as he could bear. It felt like needles in his back.

He slammed the wall with his hand and cursed. Then he leaned his hands against the wall and ducked his head, allowing the water to stream over his hair and down his face. Finally calming down, Freddy found his thoughts wandering to Irene and what they'd done. She was attractive, no argument there, but she was Marvin's widow. Her husband had died because of him. And she had a little kid for fuck's sake. He idly wondered what Dr. Moss would make of all of this if he really did tell him. Probably order him to go to another motherfucking confession.

She had given him her number, but if he had any sense he'd just throw it away and forget about her. They'd shared a raw fuck, and that was all there was to it. Move on.

Freddy turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and turned on the CD player before looking around at his apartment: stacks of comics and magazines, empty cans, cereal boxes, takeout containers, floors of untreated wood, and a lamp without a shade standing pathetically in the corner. This was no place for a woman. He sifted through the stuff on his table in a vain attempt to clean the place up a bit, but soon gave up. Right now, the best thing to do would be to get piss-drunk.

The doctors had advised against imbibing any alcohol, although in face of his complaining they had allowed that he could have the occasional beer – socially, mind you. Freddy was very aware of the effects his injury had on his alcohol tolerance. Whereas before he'd been able to hold his own in any crowd, now a couple of drinks had him drunk as a drowned mouse. It had taken a while to get used to it.

But Freddy still vividly remembered the last time he'd gotten stone drunk in his apartment. Actually, he didn't remember much about what exactly he'd done that night, but he remembered waking up the day after with an elephant of a hangover to an apartment that looked like a motherfucking hurricane had hit.

Lying on the cold grainy floor, Freddy had attempted to reconstruct events. He had been very depressed back then. The scars on his arms had been red and inflamed. He'd been taking medication, but the night before it had been wearing off. And that was when he'd gone through every inch of his house and dug up every bit form of booze he could find. A couple cases of beer, some bottles of cheap wine, and every form of hard liquor known to mankind. After the first few drinks he hadn't become very discriminating, mixed up everything into a vile cocktail, and poured it down his throat. Staggering around the apartment, he'd opened the knife drawer in the tiny kitchen. But he was over-enthusiastic and it fell to the floor, knives and spoons and spatulas scattering everywhere. No, he'd thought, he wasn't going to try to kill himself again. Holdaway had said – what'd he say? – that he'd been trying to take the easy way out. And he was no coward… And then his eyes had landed on the baseball bat.

Freddy shook his head, grinning bitterly at the memory. That was the last time he'd do that. Surely there was some other way to deal with this mess than get fucking plastered and destroy his personal property. Maybe he could go to the shooting range and work out some of his feelings – but that didn't feel right. He wanted to talk to someone. He needed someone to ground him, to take his mind off this fucking Vega business.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and slowly pulled out the crumpled piece of paper he found there. It was Irene's phone number. She'd given it to him this morning. He stared at it for a long time, then picked up the receiver. Dialed the number.

"Hey Irene? It's Freddy."

_A/N: Oh yes, our favorite badass is back in town. I don't know why I like crazy Mr. Blonde so much._


	10. Pillow Talk

**Chapter 10: Pillow Talk**

"What time is it?"

Freddy rolled over and looked at the clock on the bedside table. "Just after eight."

"Did you have dinner yet? Do you want me to cook something?"

Freddy put his arm around Irene, and she nestled her head into his shoulder. "I'm fine." He watched as she lightly stroked the scars on his belly. One on the right side of the abdomen, and another on the right of his chest, courtesy of an innocent woman and Joe Cabot. Then there was the scar on his right cheek, a farewell shot from Larry. _Rest in peace, Larry._And the self-inflicted slashes on his forearms. And finally another bullet wound in his left foot, thanks to Mr. Blonde. Freddy idly wondered how in the space of a few months he could have gone from being a normal-looking guy to someone resembling a piece of butchered meat.

Susan had actually liked the scars, telling from their one wild night in his car. And Irene hadn't minded them, although the ones on his arms had given her pause. Freddy no longer rolled up his sleeves like he used to whenever he went out. It saved him the weird looks and the motherfucking do-gooders who timidly asked if he needed some help. Irene hadn't asked him about it, thank god.

Their affair had been going on for a week now, and he was making it a habit of dropping by Irene's house after work. They didn't talk about Marvin anymore, but there was an understanding between them, an awareness of the pain they were both going through. Their relationship was based on shared compassion, and the desire for tenderness and comfort. There was no real love between them by any stretch of the imagination, but their mutual attraction was strong.

"I should go soon," Freddy said gently.

Irene nodded. "All right." She slid out of the bed and flipped on the radio. Freddy watched, amused, as she began to dress, retrieving her clothes from around the room and dancing in a bizarre sort of reverse-striptease.

"I knew a guy who danced to the radio," he remarked, propping himself up on his elbow to better watch.

Irene glanced over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I shot him."

She frowned, pausing in the act of buttoning her blouse. "Jesus. That's a little extreme."

Freddy rolled his eyes. "I didn't shoot him because he was dancing to the radio." He didn't dare tell her that it had been Vega.

"Well thank god." With a final grin she bopped out of the room, and soon Freddy could hear her rummaging around in the kitchen for a post-coital snack. He let out a deep sigh and grabbed his jeans and shirt.

As he dressed, Freddy thought about tomorrow's job. He'd been assigned to surveillance, which was simultaneously one of the most boring and frustrating things to do. In the movies it was exciting, sure, but really you were just sitting there listening to other people talk about shit. And Ferchetti wouldn't even let him in the same building as Vega, so if something did miraculously happen he'd just have to watch and listen to it all unfold, helpless to act.

But Andrews would be going undercover again, and it would be most dangerous for him, poor kid. He remembered having his own second thoughts, going over the job with Holdaway on the roof of his apartment. It had been a sunny day, but with a nice breeze.

"_We got men set up a block away from the warehouse rendezvous. They have complete visibility of the exterior so when Cabot shows up, we'll see him."_

"_What's your visibility of the interior?" Gesturing at the hand-drawn map._

_A quiet laugh from the older man crouching beside him. "Shit, we can't see shit on the inside, man."_

"_Oh man…" Rising panic. Getting to his feet and turning away. He's gotta be fucking kidding me. If something happens–_

"_We can't take the risk of getting' any closer for fear they'll spot us."_

_Pointing savagely at the map. "This is bullshit, Jim. I got all the fuckin' danger of havin' you guys in my back pocket and none of the fuckin' safety." Pacing in a slow circle, head down, silently cursing at the shitty situation. Cold sweat just thinking about it._

_A long sigh from Holdaway, the man passing a hand over his face. "What's the matter, Newendyke? Job too tough for you, man?"_

_Too – what? Shock. Anger. Stopping in his tracks, staring at Holdaway and wondering at his fucking nerve. What did he just fucking say?_

"_Nobody lied to you, man. You knew we were gonna hang back until Cabot showed up."_

_That fucking prick, how dare he! "Oh, this is fuckin' great." Bitter sarcasm. "I get no fuckin' protection from you whatsoever, but I _do get attitude_!" Voice rising, control slipping, nerves on edge, suppressing fear with rage._

_Holdaway getting up and ripping the map to pieces. "Since when does a fuckin' undercover cop have fuckin' _protection_, Freddy?" he yells, hurling the crumpled paper at Freddy's face._

Yes, he'd had second thoughts about the job. Andrews was without a doubt having them too. And while the rookie was probably in the middle of a full-fledged panic attack, here _he_ was, rolling in the hay with the kid's best friend's widow.

With that sobering thought, Freddy strolled into the kitchen to find Irene eating out of a box of Count Chocula. "Shouldn't that be for Derek?" he asked, reaching over her shoulder anyway to grab a handful of cereal for himself.

"You should talk, mister I-eat-Captain-Crunch-for-dinner. Besides, why should only Derek get to eat this? Children's cereals are always more interesting."

"In what way?" It was nice to chat about nothing.

"Oh, the catchy names, the colorful boxes, the shapes and colors and flavors… the interesting mascots." She tapped the grinning cartoon vampire on the box. "See? Superior in every way to boring old adult cereals – except in sugar content."

"I would say they were superior _especially_ in sugar content." He planted a chocolaty goodbye kiss on the side of her neck and she purred.

On his way out Freddy stopped by Derek's playpen. "Hey buddy," he said quietly. The kid smiled and gurgled at him, holding out his arms. Freddy obediently picked him up and tickled him under his drooly chin. He liked little Derek and Derek liked him, but it was a bit disturbing holding a kid who showed such a marked resemblance to Marvin. Same dark hair, same eyes. Those eyes that were laughing at him now had once been widened in terror facing down a man with a lighter.

He heard Irene coming out of the kitchen, and carefully put Derek back in his playpen. Irene reached out and straightened his shirt, holding onto the collar to pull him in for another long kiss. Irene was a damn good kisser. He wondered if she'd kissed Marvin that way, then felt shitty for thinking it. What was wrong with him?

"Are you coming tomorrow?" she asked when they came up for air.

Freddy glanced away. "Tomorrow I'm goin' on the job. We're gonna try to apprehend the entire gang, and things could get messy. I'll see you on Saturday, though, all right?"

Irene looked up at him. "Be careful," she said with a tremor in her voice. Freddy knew what she was thinking. Marvin had been on the job when his life had been taken. Of course, there was no way Irene's relationship with Freddy could compare to the importance of a husband, but she had already lost someone in the line of duty. It would be cruel if she had to go through that again.

"I'll be okay," he said with a reassuring smile. Shit, he'd be on fucking surveillance in the building across the road.

As Freddy drove home his thoughts returned to Andrews. He'd gone over the job with the younger guy earlier that week. They'd been sitting in the bleachers of an empty little league baseball diamond. Holdaway was going to meet them, but for some reason they had both shown up early.

The rookie had been near-frantic with worry, something that he managed to hide every time Holdaway was in the vicinity. In order to calm him down, Freddy had gone over the job with him. And it worked: Andrews' breathing had slowed and he'd managed to focus, answering questions about the placement of the other cops around the office, when they would move in, who would be doing what job, all that shit. It was only after their little question-and-answer session was over that Freddy realized Larry had done the exact same thing with him.

Actually, that wasn't quite right. Larry hadn't been trying to calm him down, because he'd sure as hell not been in a fucking panic like Andrews was. Or maybe some of Freddy's real nervousness had bled through his self-assured exterior, and Larry had been reacting to that. In any case, Freddy's goal – other than talking with a fucking cool professional thief about his job – had been to establish a rapport.

Upon their first meeting he'd known that this man was a friendly, approachable guy. Holdaway had stressed the importance of gaining the robbers' trust, and the loyalty of at least one of the crooks in case he came under suspicion. Hell, Lawrence Dimick had been the perfect target. He'd responded well to the commode story, and the fact that he was Joe's buddy meant that he wouldn't be afraid to stand up to the motherfucking head honcho himself on his behalf. And having Larry on his side really meant something, as he'd found out. None of the guys would mouth off against the protégé of a respected old-timer like Larry.

Freddy pulled into the parking lot behind his apartment building and turned off the ignition. He wished to fucking god that Larry's loyalty hadn't been put to the test. Joe wouldn't have suspected him if the job hadn't fucked up like it did. Shit, it all came back to Vega, every single motherfucking time. And tomorrow he'd have to just sit and watch while other people _might_apprehend him. This time of all times, when he had a chance to end this once and for all. But shit, Holdaway would skin him alive, and Ferchetti would be next in line. And he definitely didn't want to put the kid Andrews in any fucking danger.

With a muttered curse, Freddy got out of his car and slammed the door. He would find out everything tomorrow.

_A/N: The flashback conversation between Freddy and Holdaway is taken from the deleted scene called "No Protection". Reviews are welcome! (Thanks for the correction, SASSAFRAS! Love your comments.)_


	11. Stakeout

**Chapter 11: Stakeout**

Freddy was actually early for his shift, something that hardly ever happened. He took the stairs two at a time, and was slightly out of breath when he knocked softly on the apartment door. It was opened by Holdaway.

"Hey Jim," said Freddy, quickly brushing past the older man. "Anything?"

"Nothin' much," Holdaway replied looking at him with a wide-ass alligator grin. "You're a bit early, aren't you? Jeff's in there, nervous as hell," he continued when Freddy glared. "In the middle of a big meeting with head honcho Dov and the other toughs, pitchin' ideas, throwin' money around, that kinda shit. The whole gang's there. But no sign of Vega yet, my brother."

Freddy gave the window in the bare apartment room a quick glance, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face. He was itching to grab the binocs and scope the place out. Heck, if he was stuck here doing surveillance, then he would damn well do surveillance. Kelvin looked up at him from a table cluttered with a tape recorder, a video monitor, and a jumble of wires. He gave Freddy a friendly wave. "Try these on for size," he said, holding up a pair of headphones. "Jeff got the office bugged."

"All yours, kid," said Holdaway, slapping him on the back. Settling the headphones over his ears, Freddy shot the older man a reassuring smirk and watched as he left the apartment building.

Kelvin flipped a switch, and instantly a murmur of voices and generic rustling background noises assailed his ears. Freddy looked over Kelvin's shoulder at the monitor showing the feed from what Freddy realized was the camera hidden in Jeff's glasses. The resolution, like before, was pretty grainy, and there was a time lag with the video compared to the sound on the microphone.

"It's a bit better if you watch through the window," Kelvin remarked, holding up a pair of binoculars. Freddy took up the post previously occupied by Holdaway, and adjusted the focus. Gazing across at the other building, Freddy aimed the binoculars at the office window. He could just see the back of Dov's head, two or three other guys he couldn't indentify, and part of the office door.

"I see it," he said, barely moving his lips. "Where's Jeff?"

"Standing in the corner by the door. Dunno if you can see him. We got a couple guys in the office below, and more in the lobby. Cops are stationed around the building ready to move in and do their thing." As Kelvin talked, Freddy scanned the surrounding area and picked out the waiting cops.

"Looks good."

Kelvin chuckled and swiveled around in his chair so that the cord from his headphones wrapped around his torso. "Relax, man," he drawled, swinging around the other way and letting the cord unwind. "We got audio and video on that Dov guy's ass. Cops downstairs have access to the feed. Let technology do the work, buddy. Have some pistachios."

Freddy reflexively caught the bag one-handed, and stared at the techie. Finally he gave a shrug and ripped it open. Maybe he was worrying too much about this surveillance deal. Ferchetti had put him here just to keep him out of the way, after all. And the meeting had been going on all morning, and Vega hadn't shown up yet. There could be a number of reasons for that. Maybe the psycho bastard really had skipped town. Maybe he'd been lying to Dov when he said he'd come. Hell, maybe he'd just changed his mind – nobody had the faintest fucking clue how that man's brain worked. But Freddy couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.

A small snap startled him, and he looked down to see that he had crushed one of the pistachios in his hand. He had to stop thinking about Vega. He'd been acting like a man obsessed for the past few weeks, and he knew that the others thought he was getting a bit unbalanced. Shit, he was lucky to still be on the job. Maybe it was a good thing that Vega hadn't shown up today. Who knew what he would've done.

"– PROTECTION, AND THE GOOKS ARE WILLING TO PAY –"

Freddy's hands shot to his headphones and ripped them from his head. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Kelvin!" he shouted.

"I'm sorry!" the techie exclaimed, fiddling with the controls. "I was trying to adjust the volume, filter out some of the background noise… It should be okay now."

Head still ringing, Freddy cautiously put the headphones back on. "– and check it out," he heard Dov saying, clear as a bell as if he was standing right in front of him. "What else? Teddy?" Freddy returned to the chair at the window and fumbled for the binoculars.

"A friend of a friend tells me there's a big poker game comin' up. Five people, five hundred grand apiece. The odds are all in favor of old man Ivey. He's a veteran card player, sitting on six digits, so he might be willing to slip up if we make it worth his while."

"Get more information from your friend. I want to know odds, I want to know the other players before we even think of approaching Ivey. We'll put aside some green for the job." Freddy heard some murmuring and shuffling of papers, and then Dov said, "Any other business? Last chance."

One of the men in Freddy's sights spoke up. "Apparently the Spanos family is in a bit of financial trouble, and they're auctioning off their Civil War memorabilia next week. Word on the street is there's a buyer looking to purchase the collection – _without_ having to go to the auction house."

"I don't know…" Freddy could see Dov lean back in his chair. "After Joe's last robbery became a fiasco, will people be willing to work for us?"

"What's wrong with some of our guys?" asked Teddy, whose voice Freddy now recognized.

"What's wrong is they're not professionals." Dov's voice was firm and brooked no argument. "That brings us to our next order of business, hiring more soldiers. Now as some of you know, we've tried Wallace's people – the ones not completely loyal to him – but no luck. The little chickenshits are too scared to defect. Even Tony Rocky Horror."

"We don't want that fat nigger anyway," someone muttered, and everyone laughed.

"Hey, how about that Winnfield fella?" asked Teddy suddenly. "I heard he went AWOL a few months back."

"Jules Winnfield ain't in LA anymore," someone said. "He's become a fuckin' religious pacifist or something." There were many confused exclamations, and even Freddy couldn't help frowning in puzzlement.

"The point is, gentlemen, we can't get any men from Marsellus." Dov looked around the table. "That means we're going to have to recruit some young blood. I know it's risky, cuz we don't know how many trigger-happy assholes could join the ranks and fuck things up. But it's our best shot. Keep an eye and ear out for petty thieves, street toughs, any kid with a bit of experience who's on the rise. Like our buddy Paul here." Freddy's heart skipped a beat, and counted it lucky that Jeff didn't faint right then and there.

Kelvin let out a low whistle, and Freddy removed his headphones and turned to the techie. "Man, I would _not_ want to be in Jeff's shoes right now."

"No kidding. It's a fucking miracle he's made it through this far. Sounds like they're winding up, though. When are our boys gonna move in?"

Kelvin peered at the monitor. "Dunno. Soon. We got the gang, and the money, and now we –"

The police radio on the table crackled, and a tinny voice said, "Unidentified vehicle just pulled up in front of the building…" Freddy didn't listen to the rest. He hurried to the window and trained his binoculars on the rusty orange Cadillac that was parked by the side of the road. A man in khakis and a blue polo shirt got out, shut the door, and slipped on a pair of shades. He stopped to light a cigarette, tossing the match into the gutter. Putting one hand on his hip, he removed the cigarette from between his lips and looked up at the office building, blowing a stream of smoke into the air. The man was facing away from him, but Freddy knew him instantly.

"Vega," he whispered.

Kelvin was talking urgently on his cell phone, but he looked up as Freddy put his hand on the doorknob.

"Wait – Freddy – No!" he shouted, dropping the phone and leaping forward. He leaned his weight on the door, slamming it shut with his shoulder. "Didn't you hear what Ferchetti's been saying to you all this time? You can't go over there."

"C'mon, Kelvin," said Freddy with a shake of his head. "Do you really expect me to wait in this shitty room like a good little boy while Vega's walking around down there?"

Kelvin put an arm around his shoulders and forcibly steered him away from the door. He was a lot bigger than Freddy. "Yeah, and that's exactly what you're gonna do, too. Vega's showed up, so the cops are gonna go in there and take him down with the rest of the gang. End of story, man. Just relax, and let our boys do their job, okay?"

Freddy pushed the techie away, steaming. "Relax? Are you fucking serious? Vega got away from us before. You think he can't do it again? But he'll stop for me. He knows me, he'll want to face me. We can't fucking let him get away this time!"

The other man shook his head with an annoyingly sympathetic look on his sallow face. "Jesus, Freddy, listen to yourself. You're a wreck. You're lucky to even be here now."

The radio crackled, and Freddy tuned in to hear one of the cops say, "…moving in." That was all he needed to hear.

This time Kelvin was more forceful. "Are you fucking crazy?" he shouted, hauling Freddy away from the door and pushing him bodily into the corner of the room. It was at times like these that Freddy wished he hadn't been born a skinny-ass kid half a head shorter than everyone else in the class. But police academy hadn't been for nothing.

Soon Kelvin was curled up on the floor, half-stunned and nursing a bloody lip. "Sorry, Kelvin," said Freddy, taking out his gun and checking the weapon. "I gotta get over there. Vega's a fucking madman, he doesn't follow the rules, and somebody's gotta take care of him." He grabbed a police radio off the table, opened the door, paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Get some ice on that lip."

Then he was off, running down the stairs. He passed some people on the way, but they took one look at his gun and stepped aside. He burst out of the apartment and hared across the street, deftly avoiding traffic. And as he reached the door of the office building, he heard shots ring out above him.

_A/N: First surveillance in an unmarked van, then a stakeout in a building across the road… I'm hitting all the cop clichés in this story. I should've mentioned before that the character Teddy appears in the movie as the guy who tells Joe that Vic Vega's here to see him. Reviews are welcome!_


	12. Confrontation

**Chapter 12: Confrontation**

When Freddy reached the level on which Dov carried out his business, he was met with complete chaos. The hallways were crammed with uniformed and plainclothes cops, and more were arriving from the elevators and the staircase like Freddy. Everywhere he looked there was either hand-to-hand combat or an arrest in progress. It was like a very badly-choreographed climactic fight scene in an old cops and robbers flick. Freddy ducked to the side just in time to avoid a fist the size of a fucking basketball from smashing into his face, and watched as two cops brought down his attacker in a flurry of flying limbs and harsh language. "Holy shit," he muttered before making his way carefully down the hallway. He drew his handgun, but kept the safety on.

Amidst the uproar Freddy managed to battle his way to Dov's office. When he got there, it was like the fucking seventh circle of hell. Every single piece of furniture was broken and the floor couldn't be seen for the papers and money that had spilt everywhere. He could see Dov being arrested by no less than three cops, one of whom was bellowing his rights into his ear in order to be heard above the racket. Freddy spotted Jeff holding Teddy in a full nelson, and made his way over.

"Stop – fucking – moving!" Jeff was saying through gritted teeth. Freddy lifted his gun and brought it down on the back of Teddy's head. The goon went down like a pile of bricks. "Thanks, man," said Jeff, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirtfront. "Wait – what are _you_ doing here?"

"Never mind that. Where'd Vega go?" Freddy demanded.

Jeff looked like he didn't think he should answer that, but then he saw the look in Freddy's eyes. "Shit," he muttered. "I'm sorry, man. You sure ain't gonna like this. He opened the office door just as the cops moved in a minute ago. There was shooting, then he was gone. I think he went down the fire escape."

Freddy barely waited for Jeff to finish, and took off. There was still time. The cops had just moved in, arrests were still being made. Vega had gotten lost in the shuffle, but he was still nearby. He ignored Jeff's shouting as he barreled through the door of the fire escape, nearly twisting an ankle as he galloped down the steps. As he ran, he could swear that he heard someone racing down the stairs below him.

Dov's office was six floors up, but it seemed like no time before Freddy burst out into the narrow alley behind the building. Gunfire cracked, and instinctively Freddy tucked and rolled painfully into some garbage cans to avoid the bullets. Swearing under his breath, he scrambled for cover, pressing his back against the chain-link fence as he removed the safety from his Beretta handgun. The shots stopped.

For a time the only sound that Freddy could hear was the faint rumble of passing traffic, muffled shouting from Dov's office, and his own breathing. He settled his gun into a two-handed grip, thinking bitterly about his complete lack of skill at the shooting range. Slowly, he turned to peer around the garbage cans.

_BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM!_

Freddy ducked quickly back, but not before he noticed where the gunfire was coming from. Vega was behind a pile of crates further down the alley. Freddy knew that it ended in a dead end, and the only escape would be past him or through one of the buildings – but did Vega know that?

"Gotta work on your aim, man!" he shouted, gauging the distance.

"Thanks for the tip, Orange, I really appreciate –"

Freddy popped up from behind the garbage cans and opened fire, emptying the clip. He didn't manage to hit Vega – big surprise – but he was sure that one or two shots got within a few feet of him. Probably. He had been hoping that the element of surprise would make up for his fucking awful aim, but it didn't.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Freddy sheltered behind his pitiful garbage cans as Vega unloaded on him like fucking _Apocalypse Now_. He took his spare magazine from his pocket and reloaded, hands shaking. Sparks flew from where bullets grazed the fence, just inches above his head.

Eventually Vega stopped firing. Freddy could imagine the sick motherfucker crouching down behind the crates, calmly reloading, just as he had done. How long was this fucked-up scenario going to last?

"That wasn't very nice." Vega's gravelly voice sounded completely relaxed, like he was chatting with an old friend over a couple of beers. "I guess you're not gonna try to arrest me this time?"

"Nope," said Freddy, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. "I'm just gonna try to shoot you this time." Fuck, was he out of his mind? He couldn't hit the side of a barn ten feet away!

"About time you learned, kid."

Freddy wasn't sure which of them fired first, but soon they were trading shots like a couple of Wild Westers. But unlike Freddy, Vega's aim hadn't gone straight to hell, and a bullet grazed Freddy's shoulder. It felt like someone laying a red-hot poker along his skin, but after the initial shock of pain he managed to ignore it. His blood was pounding, his adrenaline was high, he was aiming to kill, he – had just run out of bullets. Freddy stared at his gun, struck by feelings of deepest betrayal. He couldn't fucking believe it.

"I can't fucking believe it…" Hearing this, Freddy looked up at Vega, who was rummaging through his pockets for more ammo. Their eyes met, and in an instant they understood their situation.

Vega jumped to his feet and took off down the alley, and Freddy was after him in a second. He was running flat out, gaining on the other man. Vega was wheezing as he raced away: getting shot twice in the chest had messed with his breathing.

The alley curved into an L-shape, and Freddy rounded the corner only to have something slam into his chest. He sprawled onto the asphalt, hissing at the pain that flared in his wounded shoulder, and looked up to see Vega hefting a pipe. He rolled, just managing to avoid a blow to the head. Suddenly the police radio on Freddy's belt crackled: "Newendyke, report. What's your position?" Freddy almost hit himself at his elementary mistake; he'd been so obsessed with catching Vega that he hadn't bothered to call for backup. _Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

Vega's black cowboy boot kicked the radio away into the darkness of the alley, then slammed into Freddy's belly. Twice. Freddy clutched his stomach, completely winded, and watched as Vega climbed up the chain-link fence. He grabbed the side of a dumpster and managed to pull himself to his feet, then he staggered over to the fence, clutching at the slimy brick wall.

Vega landed on the other side, dusted off his begrimed hands, and smiled at Freddy. Fucking bastard. "That your name? Newendyke?" he asked. Very slowly and casually he leaned down and removed a razor from his boot. He opened the blade, and Freddy felt like he wanted to throw up – and not just because he'd been kicked in the stomach. That was a razor just like the one Vega had used on Marvin.

"You try climbing that fence, Orange, and I'll slice your fingers off." The corners of Vega's eyes crinkled as he twirled the razor. Freddy felt like an idiot, holding onto the wall to remain in a somewhat upright position, blood streaming from his shoulder, panting for breath like a dying dog. Vega saw that he was obviously in no position to speak. "While we're both here we might as well have a little heart-to-heart," he said. "You know who I am, and now I know who you are. I hope they got a pretty little file at the station with my name on it."

Freddy could only stare at the other man as he gulped for air and concentrated on breathing properly. Fuck, his shoulder hurt.

"But do you know why they call me Toothpick Vic? You ever wonder that?" Vega started to pace slowly back and forth on the other side of the fence, with Freddy watching him warily. "It's not because I actually use toothpicks, like Mr. White. Not that reason at all…"

He paused and rubbed at the back of his neck, squinting his eyes in thought. Freddy knew that he was in for a story whether he liked it or not. "See, way back when I started working for Joe, there was this nigger who played college basketball. A real sharpshooter, y'know? And Joe pays him to lose, and puts a lot of money on the game."

Vega started to clean his nails with the tip of the razor, cool as could be.

"But this fuckin' kid decides to back out of it! Can you imagine that? Gets twelve points in the last two minutes." Vega grinned and shook his head at the kid's apparent stupidity. "After the game, he thinks he can just give back the money Joe paid him, but we both know it ain't that simple. We're meeting him in this shitty little restaurant, where he thinks he's safe, and Joe tells me to teach this prick a lesson."

Vega came closer to the fence, eager to tell the rest of story. Against his will, Freddy was becoming interested.

"Now listen up, this is the good part. I pick up the first thing I can find, a toothpick – I like to improvise, y'know? – and I use this little toothpick to gouge out his eye. Or most of it, anyway. Was a real mess, blood and goopy shit all over the place. Kid never played basketball again." Here Vega shot Freddy one of those trademark charming smiles. "They told that story for years. And it went so well together, y'know, Toothpick Vic. So that's what they call me now."

By this time Freddy had recovered enough to speak. "Yeah?" he croaked. "Sounds like a fucking dumb name to me."

The friendly grin vanished. "Listen Orange – or is it Newendyke? I'll pay you back for this." He put his hand on his chest. Back when Freddy had still known how to fire a gun and could actually hit what he was aiming for. "I'll track you down, and do to you what I meant to do to that fucking cop. You'll have a slow and painful death, Orange. You just wait."

"No, asshole," said Freddy, smirking through the chain-link fence. "I'll get you first."

He was still struggling for breath and in no condition to climb the fence, and was forced to watch Vega stroll away. Escaped again. Dov and the rest of the gang apprehended, and the most dangerous man in the building had walked free. He'd tell the other cops what happened, and maybe they'd pick him up, but he doubted it.

He limped slowly back into the alley to find and retrieve his radio. Holdaway would skin him alive once he found out what had happened, but Freddy didn't care. He thought about that strange moment facing Vega through the fence. They had been grinning at each other like a couple of old pals, but they hated each other. Or at least, Freddy hated Vega. He wasn't sure if a psychopath really "hated" anyone. But it was settled.

They were both in it to the end, and it would end in blood. His, or Vega's.

**End.**

_A/N: So, what'd you think? I don't know about you, but I can just picture Michael Madsen delivering the "toothpick monologue" in that creepy, calm way of his. Blonde and Orange are still alive, which means that this ain't over yet! Reviews are welcome!_


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